


Memoriam Sanguinis

by abkvs (orphan_account)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Biting, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Bloodlust, Bloodplay, Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:31:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7311355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/abkvs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack's dead and Gabriel knows it. Gabriel--no, Reaper also knows that there's been a biting hunger rolling around in his belly ever since he woke up after the blast that took his lover's life. He wants blood, lots of it, and he's been mostly content to hunt on his own for years. But now there's someone new in the picture, some apparently-newborn vampire edging in on his hunting grounds and he can't have that. Just who the hell is this masked asshole? And what's with that stupid 76 jacket?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> An expanded edition of my last fic, I Can Smell It On You. Gonna try to drag this out for at least a few chapters! Special thanks to my betareaders/proofreaders tmirai, cyberratting, hitmonchu, and nerdtier (all @ tumblr).

The nights are longest in the winter, and that works just fine for Reaper. He hates the cold, but hey, the payoff is more than good enough. It gives him more time to hunt, and _God_ does the man love to hunt.

It's not about the money anymore, nor about his childish dreams of saving the world. He realized a long time ago that things only get better in short bursts; peace never lasts. But _he_ lasts. He has and will live through it all, even though he did technically--officially--die. Sometimes the paperwork is wrong. Sometimes the graves are empty.

 _The grave couldn't hold me,_ he thinks from time to time, and it makes him chuckle. Jack would give him such grief if he heard that. Jack was always on his case about being too brooding. At least now he has a reason. Kind of. Maybe it's too stereotypical, but it's _fun_ , damnit. What's the point in being immortal if you can't have fun?

His new self is everything Gabriel dreamed of being back in his brooding teenage years. Funny how the oddest dreams are always the ones to come true.

He hunts with gun and claw in equal measure, but it's always his fangs that make the kill. The way his targets scream and writhe beneath him, the way their flesh pulses against his tongue, the spray of warm blood around his teeth... It makes him hard every single time.

If only Jack could see him now...

He stops where he stands, which, this time, happens to be on the outskirts of a desert town with a gang problem he's been slowly solving. Whenever that thought creeps into his head, it's like someone kicked off his power switch.

_If only Jack could see me now._

What would he think? Would he still love him? Reaper is Gabriel, and Gabriel still loves that stupid Captain America farm boy. He still loves him even though he killed him. _Fucking God damnit._ He should let go. He knows he should let go. But he can't.

Reaper slides his guns back into their holsters and pulls off one of his clawed gloves. There's claws underneath the metal, real ones, growing right from his fingertips, but he prefers the thicker cut of sharp metal. He reaches up with one calloused hand to rub the small gold ring in his ear between thumb and forefinger. It's the last present Jack gave him before everything went to shit.

It's the last thing he has left of Jack. Everything else was taken by the fire, the fire he caused with his stupid temper and the jealousy he now knows had been planted in him on purpose. He knows better now, knows he had been a tool. If only he had known then. Maybe he’d still have the photos and the jacket he had stolen from Jack in training. Maybe he’d still have him, Jack, with his too perfect blonde hair and shining blue eyes. Maybe he’d have something other than memories. But he doesn't.

Gabriel sighs as his stomach rumbles. This happens too often, these pangs of guilt. He slips the glove back on and he's Reaper again. He pushes the memories swirling in his gut back down and he's back on the move.

Back to the hunt. _Fuck_ , he loves the hunt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intruder alert.

It's December when Reaper first finds a body, a _corpse_ , torn to shreds in a warehouse loading bay. They're Talon, by the looks of it, their outfits leather and metal like his own. They're also missing a few limbs, which Reaper quickly notes are strewn across the cold concrete floor in pieces; a chunk of thigh sits against the wall like a sack of flour, three fingers still connected by a tiny bit of palm rest on top of a small crate, and a lump of flesh that Reaper can only assume once belonged to the now torn-open neck sits in the dirt not two feet away.

He surmises two things immediately. One, whoever did this was pissed. They had a grudge. They hated Talon. A normal assassin, an agent of Overwatch wouldn't care to mutilate. No, this is _hatred_ , or the remains of it. Brutal, seething, all-consuming hatred. 

Two, this was not the work of a human being. There’s no blood anywhere. Well, not much, anyway. The random bits of discarded flesh still cling to a little of the sweet, red juice Reaper craves, but the rest of the body is empty. One hundred percent drained. Dry skin clings to bone, making the man look like a mummified husk under all his interwoven leather. They were the victim of a deep, primal hunger. Someone who hadn't been feeding. Someone desperate.

But who would resist the call of the hunt? Reaper can't help but wonder. The hunt is what gives him purpose. He lives to kill. He  _ loves _ to kill. It feels good, makes his skin tingle, makes his face younger, makes his cock ache in its tight leather prison. There's nothing not to like. Right?

He sighs. It must be a fledgeling, then. Someone with morals. Someone who doesn't  _ want _ to be a monster for whatever silly, contrived reason.

For a moment, he feels pity. Maybe they need a mentor. Lord knows Reaper needs a friend. But he's no charitable good samaritan--no, that was Jack ( _Stop thinking about Jack_ )--and he's definitely not down for the inevitable whining that will come along with a resistant baby vampire.

Well, whatever. That’s their problem. As long as they leave enough Talon agents alive to feed Reaper’s bank account, he doesn't care.

Or that's what he tells himself.

He can't help but follow when he smells blood and tears five nights later. The trail is strong, _fresh_ , and too appealing to let lie. He can hear muffled screaming when he gets close to the warehouse district once more, and it doesn’t take him but a second to shadow step up to the roof of one of many storage units 

Reaper’s eyes narrow as he peers down into the alleyway beneath. It's dark down there, a veritable abyss only barely lit by the frugal crescent moon above, but Reaper can see everything. The darkness has no hold on his eyesight, not anymore. 

There, in the rectangular pit, framed by a dumpster and a stack of cardboard, he sees it--him? With shoulders that broad, it must be a man, he thinks. They're turned away from him, their mouth occupied in squirming flesh held fast under their body weight. Reaper can hear the soft crackle of breaking bone when one particularly violent jerk is met with a devastating punch to the ribs from the anonymous assailant. 

He decides he likes this mystery man, even if his choice of attire--is that a gas station jacket?--is a little too red, white, and blue for his tastes.

Jack would have worn it, he thinks. Jack liked that stupid patriotic shit.

_ Stop thinking about Jack. _

For a moment he considers going to greet him, but Reaper thinks better of it. If this man really is feral, he won't take kindly to anyone who approaches. Funny, then, that he's managed to keep his kills to Talon agents so far. To be feral is to be wild, ruthless, and driven only by starvation. A feral vampire will take anyone they can get their hands on. Is this luck? Reaper's curiosity burns in his chest. How deep does this man's grudge hold if it can affect him at his most base level?

Of course, he's making a lot of assumptions here. He assumes this man is the one who killed the other Talon agent earlier in the week. He can't prove it, but still... He hasn't seen a sign of any other vampire in this remote town so far, and he's been here for months. It's too coincidental. It has to be him.

He also assumes that the guy must only be feeding when he’s absolutely blasted on hunger. Even from here, Reaper can see how white and thin his hair is. Only regular feeding can elevate him to his peak state. Feral feeding only keeps you alive, if barely.

Reaper sucks his teeth and the man below snaps up to attention, whirling left and right to see who has found him. He doesn't look up. He really  _ is _ young.

As much as he’s enjoying the sight, Reaper forces himself to leave. He’s not going to let himself become this guy’s keeper. He says it again the next night, and the one after that too as he’s once again following a distant trail. He only wants to sate his curiosity, that's all.

He doesn't intervene, at least. He never introduces himself, never gets close enough to make his presence known. Reaper just watches, fascinated, night after night.

Slowly, it becomes routine. Three times a week he follows the man, and slowly he begins to feel like he’s getting to know him. He’s not sure why he’s stalking him like this--what's the point? He'll get nothing out of it--but it makes for good entertainment if nothing else. That's a good enough reason.

Over the course of a month, Reaper learns a few key things about the man. He’s incredible with a pulse rifle, first of all, and the way he kills when he’s on a mission, (or at least, when he’s not feral), is beautifully precise. He wears a mask, a visor that Reaper can only assume feeds him data to make up for his weakened abilities. He lives in a rundown apartment block, due for demolition with a tear-down date several years past. And, just as Reaper suspected, the mysterious soldier (who he has come to mentally refer to as 76, the number on his coat) only targets Talon agents.

The last note puzzles him to no end. Why Talon? No one even knows they're out here; the town houses an underground training base and a small cache of illegal weapons, but nothing more. Certainly not enough to warrant a strike; there's more important sites to go to before any force would even consider clearing out the small fry. So why? Reaper wonders briefly if it's him the mysterious vampire is looking for. He’s certainly a high priority hit, being one of Talon’s most accomplished contractors, but he hasn't been on jobs for them recently. Besides, if he was followed, wouldn't the vampire have come after him by now...? 

Reaper groans. He's obsessing. This is all too much. He’s just a hitman now, not a strike commander, not a soldier. He shouldn't be thinking so hard about all of this. It's not even important. Still, there's a feeling in his gut that he just can't shake. 

Who the hell is this man?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I very much dig the idea that Gabriel overthinks; he either overthinks or underthinks, and sometimes one leads to the other. Jack was his balance in that regard. They kept each other in check. Without each other, they're both a little lost. ...Maybe more than a little. They're doing their best.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One sided old man battles

It’s February when they finally meet, and it’s not by choice. A shootout had drawn Reaper to the back end of an elementary school that, judging by its _Colored People_ and _White People_ drinking fountains, had been out of use for a solid century, if not more.

His intent had been to grab someone out of the fray and rip their throat open with his teeth, and for a while, his plan had gone pretty smoothly. Reaper walked with the shadows, hiding himself against crumbling brick and behind the glare of muzzle flares, becoming a seeping black mist when bullets flew his way. He snaked through shot-out corridors riddled with the bullet holes of old feuds and deftly dodged around rusting needles sitting empty on the peeling tile floor.

It was easy mode. Was.

Now, it’s a pain in the ass. The hallways are alight with frantic screams and gunfire all aimed towards the pulse rifle-wielding asshole who has so smoothly ruined Reaper’s plans. The same pulse rifle-wielding asshole who had so conveniently come bursting in through the same door Reaper had been creeping up against to snag the cowering mess of a man that had been hiding there. So close he could almost taste him. And now that’s all lost.

Reaper drags one clawed hand down his mask as he sits in the shadows, watching as 76 tears through perfectly good flesh with bullet after bullet. It’s stupid and wasteful, he thinks, frowning. All that blood that could have been his--theirs, if he was feeling generous, which he rarely is--if only it hadn’t been splattered into dirt and onto peeling walls probably filled with asbestos. He grits his teeth. He’s a little pissed off.

Okay, more than a little.

He grips his gun with a white knuckled fury and fires one precise round into the intruder’s calf. It tears through flesh like wet paper and the man crumples, clearly not used to such high powered weaponry being aimed at him. Probably not used to anyone actually being able to hit him either, Reaper thinks.

He doesn’t care that the wound is meaningless, doesn’t care that the bullet is already being pushed back out as 76’s body repairs itself from the inside out. He definitely doesn’t care that the gang is long gone and the building is as quiet as the grave Gabriel just can’t seem to sink into, because a one on one is what he wants right about now.

The thud of his stomping steps echoes in the halls as he storms up to 76 and kicks him square in the ribs. There’s a crack that satisfies him so thoroughly he can damn near feel his cock aching. He can almost feel the glare coming at him from inside 76’s visor.

It’s not like Reaper really has a good reason to be ticked off at him beyond this one incident. They’ve kept out of each other’s way and 76’s meddling hasn’t cost Reaper any potential income. It’s just that Gabriel Reyes has a bit of a hair trigger when he’s hungry, and tonight he’s really fucking hungry. He hasn’t fed in two days. If he goes another night without blood he’ll start turning feral and that’s the last thing he wants. Unfortunately, feeding has been hard with Talon and the gangs it employs lying low after being so frequently picked off by two hungry vampires. Things went much slower when it was just Reaper using the town’s underbelly as his personal buffet.

“You fucking cunt,” he snarls as he kicks-- _shatters_ \--the barrel of the pulse rifle now aimed at him. With the weapon disposed of, there’s nothing to stop his heel from coming down with a sick crunch onto 76’s already broken ribs. He’s pinned, too weak from his lack of blood to fight Reaper off properly, and Reaper knows it.

The soldier’s brows furrow behind his mask, making his forehead wrinkle just enough for Reaper to make out the emotion: confusion. For all the times Reaper had watched him, 76 didn’t even know he existed.

76’s silence serves only to fuel Reaper’s anger. He digs his heel in, ignoring the sting of claws in his calf. “That was my goddamn dinner you just chased off. Who the fuck do you think you are?” he snarls, his fangs bared and his red eyes blazing despite the fact that neither could be seen behind his mask.

“Sounds like a personal problem,” 76 replies in a drawl so achingly Midwestern it makes Reaper’s heart sting with memory.

“Besa mi culo, _puta_ ,” he huffs through flared nostrils, now that much more pissed off by the ache in his chest. “Give me a good goddamn reason why I shouldn’t eat you in their place.”

Again, 76 says nothing. His brow wrinkles with unreadable emotion. Reaper’s heel digs in deeper but all he gets in response is labored breathing and the sensation of the claws in his skin going a bit more slack. This guy is pretty fucked up, isn’t he? It's a miracle he's even healing at all, Reaper thinks as he listens to the soft crinkle-crack of bones putting themselves back together.

The silence between them fills itself with the sounds of the night. A skittering rat here, a hooting owl there, and somewhere else, the soft groan of a man getting high for the twenty-third time this week. Reaper can feel his rage burning off quickly, so he huffs and cracks his neck and growls a guttural, “Well?” just to try to keep his hold.

“Ain’t got one.”

What an obnoxiously bland answer. He yanks his foot away and slams it down next to 76’s head. “It’s fucking pitiful that Talon falls to you,” he says with a slow, disappointed shake of his head. “You’re so frail.”

Reaper smirks at the way the mention of Talon makes 76 twitch. His lips pull into a grin when he sees the man below him furrow his brows deeper and reach for the remains of his gun.

“You one of them?” 76 asks, his claws flexing slowly.

Reaper nudges 76’s head with the toe of his boot. “What, you gonna try ‘n’ bite me if I am?” He swiftly pulls one of his guns out from under his jacket and aims it straight down at 76’s forehead. “I could kill you before you even rolled over.” He cocks the gun to make his point.

76 lowers his hands. “But you won’t,” he says.

Reaper can’t help but chuckle. 76 is cocky; it’s almost cute. “It wouldn’t be any fun,” he replies, then pushes his thick pistol back in its holster. “You’re too weak to put up a good fight.”

“You wanna bet?” 76 is pulling himself up, though it’s slow and shaky and clearly more of an effort than it should be. His voice is rough and reminds Reaper of sandpaper; 76 will probably be feeding feral again tonight, he thinks.

Reaper also thinks he could probably snap the old man’s brittle bones with a single finger. It’s tempting to try; the sight below him is nothing short of pathetic. He can’t help by laugh. “Yeah, I could make some damn good money off of that.”

It doesn’t take more than a gentle nudge to push 76 back down onto the floor. “I’ll say it again. You’re _pathetic._ You’re too weak to eat freely and now you’re too weak to fight.” He scoffs. “You got a death wish?”

He suspects the answer is yes, but he’s given none aside from labored breathing. This is not as fun as he had hoped it would be.

A loud gurgle from his gut suddenly reminds Reaper why he came here; he’s starving too. With a grumble, he steps over 76, past him, and begins to dissipate into black mist. “I don’t have time for this. See you later, _gringo_.”

Before 76 can respond, Reaper is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Besa mi culo, puta = kiss my ass, bitch  
> props to labelphegor@tumblr for being my on call Spanish swear dictionary


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hello from the other siiiiiiiiiide

Jack hasn’t been a religious man for a long time. When he woke up after the blast that killed his best friend--his lover--and found himself transformed into a murderous predator, he lost his faith. It collapsed like a stone in a well and never resurfaced. And yet, every time he wakes up aching and a little more blonde than he had been the night before, the first thing he always does is stuff his hand into his pocket and make sure his rosary is still there. He counts each bead to calm the panic that always rises when he tastes blood on his lips, then counts them again when he inevitably thinks about how good it tastes and how good he feels. He hates it, he tells himself. But he’s wrong.

His cheeks flush at night when the memories trickle back. He can see himself there, burying his ungodly teeth into soft flesh. He remembers the taste, remembers the exhilaration that always comes from the unshakeable knowledge that he’s the most powerful thing in the room. It’s incredible. He hates it.

Jack’s thumb traces the smooth form of the final bead, then slides onto the crucifix. It’s older than he is, a family heirloom passed to him by Gabriel before their lives collapsed in fire and gasoline. It’s all he has left of him now.

He’s standing by the open window of his modest, crumbling apartment when he pulls the crucifix to his lips and breathes in its scent. It smells of silver and tarnish mostly, but there’s another hint there, a tiny wisp of the gunpowder and leather that always seemed to follow Gabriel, way back when. It’s the only good part of being the creature he is now, Jack thinks. He can hold on to this one thing, this one piece of his past, thanks to his heightened senses.

Unfortunately, he can only smell it after he feeds, and Jack hates feeding. He hates even calling it feeding. On some level, he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much. Why should it when they were all people he planned to kill anyways? He just can’t help it. It’s the boy scout in him, he knows Gabriel would say. It’s because a man dies much quicker to a well-placed bullet than by having all of his blood drained slowly through a single neck wound. It’s cruel to kill like this.

Jack hates feeding, but, sooner or later, he always does. It's not that he gives in, it's that he blacks out and it just _happens_. He always knows the time is drawing near when he starts to get the shakes. The pain he's used to by now, he's always in pain, but the shakes are awful. His body trembles and gives up and the ground rises to greet him. When he wakes, he's in bed, covered in blood.

The memories are the worst part. He's an animal in them. He snarls and growls, as rabid as a mad dog. He bites and he tears and he claws at flesh and it's torture. It's absolute torture, what he does to these people, but he can't stop. His body won't let him.

Jack's thoughts drift to the man he encountered last night. He was so strong. Even when Jack had the shakes, he could still overpower a human pretty easily. But this man... He was not human. He reeked of blood, and hate wafted off of him so thickly it was almost palatable. And he had known him. He, whoever he was, had spoken like he knew Jack, knew what he was and what he was refusing to do.

_Is he like me?_

The thought sticks fast in his mind. It's not that he doesn't think it's possible that someone... some _thing_ else like him can exist, he's simply never considered it.

Jack wonders if the stranger in the skull mask can help him. He was right, after all. Jack is weak. _Frail_ , as he had put it. He looks like an old man and feels like one too, most days. He supposes he is, technically, but every time he rises after feeding, he looks much closer to the man he had been back in his military days than a grandfather.

_You’re too weak to eat freely and now you’re too weak to fight._

That line holds a vice grip on his thoughts. Would... _eating_... of his own volition really make that much of a difference? Would the pain go away? It tempts him like a siren song.

One... Two. In... Out. Jack takes long, smooth breaths. He's not rattling anymore. That's nice, at least, but God, he's tired. He lets himself collapse into the rotting mattress he calls a bed and tries to ignore the ghost of Gabriel’s touch haunting him as he drifts slowly to sleep.

...

Jack doesn't dream much, never has, and frankly, he's grateful for it. Sleep is a blissful void, and waking, well...waking is never pleasant. He always wakes pressed against the wall, the same way he used to always wake pressed against Gabriel. Regret is never a good way to start a night.

He tries not to think about the memories burning wistful holes in his skull as he drags himself to his feet. He focuses on his breathing, using the slow rhythm of his heartbeat to drive out all other thought.

It works, mostly, and Jack spends his first few waking hours doing his best to fix his gun. This isn't the first time it's broken, though it is the worst damage it has sustained yet. Thankfully, he's a damn good scavenger, and he has a massive stockpile of spare parts with which to cobble his guns back together. It's a good way to pass the time; when he’s not repairing it, he’s cleaning it or tweaking its settings.

He works fast and efficient when he's hyperfocused. Breaking his concentration is a momentous task, but a certain scent wafting in through his window manages to do just that. Blood--lots of blood--leather, and a bit of gunpowder. Jack's heart seizes in his chest. He knows better, knows it's not Gabe, that it's _impossible_ for it to be Gabe, and that there's a lot of people who smell like leather and gunpowder but... Damnit, he can't stop himself. He's on his feet in an instant, his head shoved out the window as his senses fire on all cylinders to locate the source.

It's close only for a moment, then it's gone again. Jack pulls his mask off the table, mostly out of habit (and maybe a bit of paranoia), and shoves it onto his face. The visor loads up and his vision is flooded with data that he promptly dismisses.

He's on the sixth floor but Jack pulls himself through the screenless window anyways and all but vaults down the fire escape. Soon, he's skulking through the mostly empty streets, keeping out of streetlights and staying close to walls. The smell has hooked his nostrils and it pulls him like a leash through alleys and car parks until, finally, he hits a dead end.

Jack frowns at the dumpster that greets him as if it owes him a personal apology. There's only trash here. A stack of cardboard flanks the rusting green dumpster, and old graffiti frames them both. Jack's shoulders droop.

“Didn't peg you for a voyeur, 76.”

The gruff voice makes Jack whirl on his heel. Instinctively, he reaches for the rifle that isn't there, and the man in the skull mask laughs.

It's definitely him the scent is coming from. The tone of blood that lingers around him is powerful. Jack wonders why he didn't smell the other notes before, the leather and gunpowder mix that had drawn him so quickly to this scene, but his gut tells him it's his own fault. He was starving when they last met. He isn't starving now. God damnit.

The skull mask quirks to the side a bit. Jack realizes he’s staring, then realizes that there's something in the stranger’s arms.

It's a body.

No, that's not quite right. It's a person. A live person, held by a chokehold so tight that their face is beginning to go purple.

_It's food_ , Jack's brain hisses, much to his chagrin.

“I could say the same to you,” Jack replies at last. “How long have you been watching me?”

“Long enough to know you only feed feral. What, you got _morals_ running around in there still?” The masked stranger’s laugh is rumbling and cruel. “I bet you're just dying for a piece of this.” He gestures with one clawed, gloved hand at the barely-squirming, suffocating man in his grasp.

It's obvious enough that the man is one of the thugs he had run off the night before, but still, Jack feels bad for him. Apparently it shows, because the stranger laughs again.

“Go on, take a bite.” One of the stranger’s metal claws slides down his captive’s shirt. Red follows torn fabric, seeping out of the new wound like water.

Jack’s chest tightens. It's thick, red water, and Jack is so, so thirsty. He wants it. He _needs_ it. He can't stop staring. He can feel his fangs baring themselves.

“Poor little lost kitten,” the stranger cooes. “Come here, kitty. Time to eat.”

Jack grips his head. It's pounding; his brain is screaming at him to bite and drink and feed. It's right there. The release from his pain is _right there,_ just out of arm's reach.

His breath catches in his throat as he stumbles forward. Jack reaches up with one trembling, clawed hand to pull away his mask’s mouthpiece.

_It smells so good._

His mouth is hanging open. He's sure the stranger is grinning at him, looking down on him, but he doesn't care. He's so hungry.

Jack falls mouth-first against the stranger’s captive, and when the blood touches his tongue he can feel the universe being born in his bones. Every nerve is firing at once. The pain is oozing out of his tired muscles. His wrinkles are disappearing as his skin tightens and blushes with renewed vigor, and his hair is becoming thick and blonde again.

He grips his victim’s arms as the poor captive begins to seize. Jack can't stop drinking. He's slurping at the wound greedily and biting haphazardly in random plots of flesh. God, it's so wrong, but Jack doesn't care. He can't remember the last time he felt this alive.

When the flow finally stops, he lets the corpse fall to the dirty concrete. His lips and chin and hands are stained red and dripping and he immediately begins to lick up what little blood found its way to his fingers, but a clawed hand stops him.

Jack peers up carefully at the masked man, his chin now cupped in his grasp. He doesn't know what to expect; he can barely think. Is he going to mock him again? Maybe he deserves it after putting this off for so long. Jack's too blissed out to feel shame.

“Take off your mask,” the man growls.

_What?_

Jack pulls back a little. The demand is so odd and out of place that it sobers him. Is that desperation in his voice? It almost sounds like a plea.

The claws tighten, little red beads pooling at their tips. He can hear the man’s teeth grit like nails on a chalkboard. “I said take it _off,_ puta.”

Slowly, Jack's hands travel up to click the straps holding the visor and the remains of the mask to his head. He's not sure why he's granting the man this request (he did _shoot him_ , after all). Maybe it's the slight trembling he can feel vibrating in the man's claws. Maybe it's the leather and gunpowder scent overpowering his brain.

He pulls the mask away and he can hear the stranger suck in a hard breath behind his bullet-scarred disguise, but it's what the man says next that makes 76’s heart stop.

It's a whisper, almost a whimper; that guttural growl has suddenly become a helpless mewl.

_“Jack?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> softly whispers my tumblr is http://abakkus.tumblr.com/ & my twitter is https://twitter.com/helloabakkus so if you're ever aching to talk ships or theories or yell at me for breaking your heart or ANYTHING please feel free! my inbox is empty and lonely u will not be a bother. (:


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fluff ft. a tutorial

They stare at each other for a long few minutes. Jack is trying to read expression from Reaper’s expressionless mask; Reaper is trying to make his mind stop seizing with a thousand and one questions. When they do speak, it's over each other, both at once.

“Who are you?” “Is it really you?”

Both pause and consider the other’s query almost as soon as their own has left their mouth.

It's Reaper who speaks first this time. His hand pulls back from Jack's chin, but Jack's gaze doesn't drop an inch. “It's _me_ , Jack,” he says like it makes sense to the confused vampire half-kneeling before him.

Of course Jack can't tell just from his voice; if he could, this would have happened a lot sooner. They haven't heard each other's voices in God knows how many years. So, logically, it shouldn't hurt Reaper when Jack again asks, “Who are you?” with his brow twisted in confusion (and maybe a bit of fear). But it does.

Reaper's chest heaves with a heavy sigh as he pulls off his gloves. His fingertips are calloused and warm to the touch--a touch which he quickly spreads over Jack's cheeks, exploring the surface he once lavished with kisses day after day.

Jack flinches like he wants to pull away, but he doesn't. Instead, he reaches up to touch Reaper's mask. He explores the scarred surface slowly, almost in a mockery of Reaper’s touch, but his face holds only a wondrous curiosity. His fingers creep and crawl along the old cracks and scars and shrapnel dents until he reaches the recessed pockets that hold the straps.

When the click of his mask being undone echoes in Reaper’s ears, he pulls his hands back like a reflex. He doesn't like showing his face, doesn't like people seeing him, but his hands rest on Jack's wrists instead of pulling them away. He sighs again.

“It's me, Jack,” Reaper says once more as he finally pulls the skull from his face. He's Gabriel again. He's always been Gabriel, but Lord has he tried to forget.

He can feel Jack's pulse quicken and his muscles tense, and the breath Jack sucks in is the loudest noise Gabriel has ever heard; it's a record broken moments later by the cracks in Jack's voice when he speaks.

“G- _Gabe_? You're alive?”

Jack is quaking, his body shuddering like the first pulses of an earthquake as he collapses fully to his knees. Gabriel can see all the questions in his eyes, the hurt, the pain, and the love, too. Jack's eyes were always an open book. Some things never change.

Neither seems to know what to do. They stare at each other with a wistful intensity, as if the slightest movement will make the water ripple and their reflection fade. Gabriel's head tips into Jack's hand and Jack flinches and gasps. _It's real._ This is real.

“If I had known,” Gabriel whispers. Jack's voice isn't the only one cracking. “I'm sorry.” His grip on Jack's wrist tightens.

Gabriel’s regrets fall on deaf ears. Jack doesn't care. Jack pulls him down and against his body and holds the pair of them together like a vice. There's no bitterness here. This is all he needs.

“You're alive,” Jack says in reverence as he breathes deep of Gabriel's scent. It's overpowering, a moment now instead of a memory.

“Yeah,” Gabriel says. “I am.” On his face is the first kind smile his scarred face has worn since their lives went up in flames.

Neither wants to pull back now that they’re together. Their hearts are beating slow and parallel and it feels _right_. The night is still around them; nothing else exists. Just as it should be.

Somewhere between pressing his face into Gabriel’s chest and moving his nuzzling to the crook of his neck, Jack is struck by a curious sensation. His pain is gone. It's such a strange, foreign feeling. When was the last time he didn't ache at all? He’s so used to the constant ache that the lack of pain has its own, distinct physical feeling and Jack doesn’t know how to take it. No pain... That’s a good thing, right?

“Gabriel,” he says slowly, cautiously. His fingers creep into the soft curls atop Gabriel's head as he looks up into his eyes. He’s all at once happy and scared and excited, and Jack doesn’t know which emotion is the strongest. “I...”

Something about the way Jack's mouth hangs open in a small, perfect o, and the way his fangs dip down into view tells Gabriel everything he needs to know. The way Jack's chest heaves, the needy glint in his eye... It's all perfectly clear. Jack is hungry. Jack wants _more_. Gabe dips down and licks at the deep red crusting on Jack’s chin. Sloppy seconds never tasted so good.

“I know, gatito,” Gabriel replies. His rumbling growl sends goosebumps scattering across Jack’s flesh and a heat down into his chest. “You crave it just as bad as I do.”

For a moment, Jack had forgotten that this man is the same man who had so hatefully threatened him the other night. He had forgotten he was dangerous and sadistic. Now that he remembers, now that he knows that all of these traits are the traits of the man he still so loves, Jack is conflicted. Mostly, he's aroused, and he's not sure if he wants to be. He can't stop imagining Gabriel's fangs burying into him, or his own into Gabe’s sweet, soft flesh. He can't stop wondering what Gabriel's blood tastes like.

Jack purses his lips. He heaves a breath in, then out. _Breathe it out, Jack. Just breathe it out_. He opens his mouth to deny it, but all that comes out is, “I... I don't know.”

“You're tired, Jack, I know those eyes.” When Jack opens his mouth to protest, Gabriel continues, “Yes, you are. You've only been feeding feral, haven't you? It's hell on your body. Just... Look at you.”

Gabriel leans down to kiss beside the heavy bags under Jack's eyes and Jack flushes; he doesn't know what he wants anymore. His mind is a fog of need and want and hunger and _God, the pain is gone_. A tiny whimper skitters between his lips. “I'm scared,” he confesses, and he feels stupid for saying it.

“I know,” Gabriel replies.

“I don't want to be this.”

“But you _are_.” Gabriel is looking down at him, an unspoken plea in his barely furrowed brows. “We can't go back, gatito.”

Jack lets himself chuckle, just a little, tiny bit. “I doubt you want to,” he says, a lopsided smile finding its way onto his face as he looks back up at his long lost lover. “You always did like this aesthetic,” Jack adds, then sighs as his smile fades away again. “Will you teach me?”

Gabriel’s reply is a wicked, fanged smile that splits all the blood in Jack’s body between his cheeks and his crotch. It’s going to be a very long night.

...

“Shit!” “It's the reaper!” “Run!”

Jack gives Gabriel an odd look from underneath his mask. Gabe’s stoic visage reveals no emotion, but he knows damn well Gabe’s grinning underneath it.

“You have a reputation?” he asks in disbelief, his brow quirking above his visor.

Before them, a small mass of bodies scatters. Gabriel has decided to crash a bonfire party, wherein the bonfire is really just a trash can doused with gasoline. The ground is littered with refuse: bottles and cans and paper plates and all manner of food trash left behind by wasted twenty-somethings.

Their weapons aren't drawn--Jack’s is still back at home--but Gabriel shadow stepping into the mass of bodies is enough to send them into screeching, stumbling mass panic.

“Damn right I do,” Gabriel replies. Yup, just as Jack thought, there's pride in his voice. “Do this long enough and you become an urban legend.”

“So you've spent all this time scaring kids?” Jack scoffs.

Gabriel tips his head at Jack in a way that Jack knows means he's rolling his eyes. “No, I've spent all this time being a contract hitman. Just, sometimes there's witnesses, and witnesses gossip. So I take advantage of it once in a while, for fun.” Gabriel flicks his claws at him. “Live a little, babe.”

Jack shifts his weight to one foot and crosses his arms. There’s more than a few things here he could nitpick, but he goes for the one he figures has the most pride attached. “So, who came up with Reaper? You, or them?” He’s giving Gabe a shit-eating grin, even though he can't see it.

Gabriel doesn't respond, save for a jerk of his head towards the fleeing crowd. Instead, he runs, and Jack follows.

When Jack and Gabriel run together, they’re one being. They always were, back in their military days. It’s why they joined the SEP together, why they rose through the ranks. There was never a better team, and their sync hasn’t lost a beat to their years of separation. If anything, they seem to be even more aware of each other; perhaps it’s the new power rushing through their veins. Together, almost perfectly in step, they dip and glide through alleys and launch themselves across rooftops as they give chase to their arbitrarily chosen target.

Jack, for the most part, is trying very hard not to think about it. He doesn't like the fact that they're hunting an innocent kid, a boy who can't be any older than his mid or maybe late twenties. And, okay, maybe they did chase him off a drunken make out session with a probably-barely-eighteen year old, but that's just creepy, and not terrible enough for this sort of torture, Jack thinks. It's definitely not the sort of target he’s used to deploying on.

It occurs to Jack that Gabriel is _herding_ the boy. It all feels too deliberate--they could take him at any time, couldn't they? They're faster and stronger and Gabe has that weird teleporty thing. There's no reason to drag it out otherwise. It makes Jack a little ill, to think of this as a game, but still, he runs.

They split at a fork made of boxes and crates to corner their shuddering victim against a rusting old shipping container at the edge of a ransacked storage pod. Their target is shivering and crying and pleading and--! _God_ , Jack knows he should feel bad, should make this all stop, but the hunger in him is growing and screaming and tearing at his gut.

_This is so wrong_ , Jack thinks, but Jack’s predatory instincts are yelling louder than his conscience. The scents of piss and sweat and tears rocket through his nostrils as the pair stalks closer to their victim and it's making him _excited_.

Gabriel guides Jack forward and places him against the shivering mass of man, and Jack doesn't resist. He swallows thickly, but doesn't fight it. This is what he wanted, right? He's not sure anymore. He knows he doesn't want to be in pain, but that's about it. His brain is a surging sea of mixed emotions and Jack's drowning in it.

Metal talons guide him forward, place his hands around trembling wrists, and coax his lips against skin sticky with cold sweat. Jack's heart pounds as the scent of blood invades his senses. He can practically _taste_ it, and oh god, it's so good. His lips part slowly. He wants it. He _needs_ it.

He must have moaned, because he can hear Gabriel’s deep, gravelly chuckle by his ear. “Do it, Jack,” the Reaper purrs, and Jack is suddenly distinctly aware of a hard lump pressing against his backside. He moans again. He bites down.

Jack stops breathing when blood pools around his fangs. There it is again, that bliss he felt before, but now a hundred times more powerful. His eyes roll back and so do his hips; Gabriel is grinding insistently on him now, but Jack barely notices. The only thing in his world is the taste of blood. Who cares that the man beneath him is screaming? Who cares that Jack is gripping his throat, squeezing his windpipe to stifle the noise? Not Jack. Jack's running on instinct and pleasure and both are making him happy and needy and so, so hard.

He exhales a shuddering gasp when he tips his head back for air. The high of fresh blood is so intense that when his eyes flutter open to meet the night sky, Jack swears he can see the life cycles of the stars laid out above him. He's _alive_ , maybe for the first time in his life.

Jack leans back into Gabriel's arms and the man he had been holding collapses to the ground, now dead and drained.

“Did you like it, gatito?” Gabriel whispers in Jack’s ear. His hand has slipped down, and Gabriel is gently kneading Jack's crotch with his gloved palm. He knows the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gatito = kitten  
> all instances of Gabe calling Jack kitten are dedicated to cyberratting for Reasons


End file.
